


can't no preacher man

by alchemystique



Series: devil's backbone [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6505486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She breathes a sigh of relief when she catches sight of the shape of her late night visitor, and then stifles a snort at herself. Only Karen Page would find the sight of Frank Castle relieving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't no preacher man

She’s gotten a little jumpy over the past few weeks. Probably that’s a good indication that all the crap she’s started digging up about Roxxon is bad for her blood pressure and her life expectancy, but Frank was right about her. If she’s gonna die young, she’s going to dig her own grave doing it. 

So when the light filtering in from her office door shifts and darkens for a moment, Karen instinctively reaches for her handbag and the gun tucked inside. Constant vigilance, and all. 

She breathes a sigh of relief when she catches sight of the shape of her late night visitor, and then stifles a snort at herself. Only Karen Page would find the sight of Frank Castle relieving.

“What the fuck do you want?” she says in greeting, and he almost smiles at her again. It’s kind of upsetting that this is pretty much the most normal relationship she has anymore.   


She tries not to let herself think about it, too much. 

He gestures at her with a coffee cup, leaning against her doorjamb, doing that silent communication thing that should irk her but instead reminds her of the ease with which she’s fallen into this thing, this sort-of-maybe friendship with a man who goes out every night with the express intent to kill people. She spares little more than a second to contemplate exactly how he had managed to sneak past the front desk in a disguise as laughably pathetic as the baseball cap and hoodie he’s wearing, and shoots him a look over the top of her laptop. The ancient monitor on her desk has never been turned on, sitting there like a relic from days past, just like everything in this office. It is technically her office, but she hasn’t had the nerve or the energy to make it her own - her only real addition to the room is the handbag she keeps under her desk and the Keurig in the corner she keeps forgetting to buy replacement packets for. 

Frank seems hesitant to press past her doorway, and she raises a curious eyebrow at him. 

“If that coffee isn’t for me we’re gonna have some problems.”  


He gives a curious glance to useless coffee maker in the corner, but the hand behind his back swings forward to reveal a second, glorious styrofoam cup that looked like it was still steaming.

“Marry me,” she says, and then bites her lip because there are about a thousand different reasons that’s inappropriate and he still hasn’t said a fucking word.  


He leans in, finally, out of the shadows, his boots heavy on the floor as he slides across to her desk, carefully setting down the cup before slouching into the chair in front of her desk. “Had an interesting conversation last night,” he finally tells her, gravel in his voice and a glimmer of annoyance in his eye. 

She’s so busy guzzling down half her drink that she almost misses the sarcasm. Almost.

“You ever think about cutting out some of the sanctimonious pricks in your life?”  


Her eyes widen over the rim of her coffee cup, but she doesn’t give him the pleasure of having all the great snappy one liners. “I tried, once, but he apparently has selective memory. Or he doesn’t understand what ‘dead to me’ means.”

There it is. That smile that is usually so elusive on his face. He covers it up by gulping down his own drink. “From what I remember, that asshole got shot in the head, so it could be either one.”

And this is so morbid, this is completely not a direction either one of them should steer this weird conversation in, but she feels the corners of her lips curve up in a smile while he stares a her, deadpan. He’s been doing that a lot more - all direct eye contact and held gazes, and Karen doesn’t exactly know what to make of it. She’s seen him a handful of times since that first night, and every single time he’s just sort of - carved out a hole in her life to make himself fit. She refuses to admit to anyone, least of all herself, that she enjoys the way he does that, sliding into her periphery and then slotting himself at her side like he belongs there. She should hate it.

Instead it makes her feel a little less lonely. A little less broken. 

“What did Matt want?” she finally asks, and he gives her a comically pained look, like he was hoping she wouldn’t ask after he’d essentially come here to tell her about it.   


“Seems to think he knows best when it comes to your safety.”  


Karen eyes him carefully, checking for any signs of bruising, but his face is remarkably clear of any cuts or scrapes or purpling marks. 

Does that mean Matt restrained himself, or does that mean Frank had the upper hand from the start and Matt is sitting somewhere nursing some bruises of his own?

Karen decides she doesn’t particularly care either way.

“I’m surprised you’re telling me, considering the number of times you’ve told me to stay out of all of this.”  


There’s a peculiar tilt to his head as he considers her, and she watches the way his jaw clenches with - fascination. She’ll call it fascination and ignore the way her heart skips a beat as she takes in the scruff of his two-day old shadow and the broken line of his nose. 

“Figured out a while ago you don’t listen to a goddamn word anyone says when it comes to your own safety. At least this way I know what idiot move you’re gonna make next.”  


Karen rolls her eyes, swallowing heavily when he furrows his brow, like he can’t quite understand why she’s watching him so carefully. “I told you I don’t need anyone checking up on me.”

“And I respectfully ignored you, just like your lawyer buddy.” He mulls over his words for a second, and then, “Ma’am,” he adds, with a tilt of his head, and it should be ridiculous and mocking but it sounds almost...apologetic.   


She wonders how many times Frank would leap in to help his wife open pickle jars or reach for something on the top shelf only to get a look or a lecture, how long it took him to perfect that demure head tilt - what it looked like when he was trying to fight back a genuine smile.

(The thought does wonders for the heat on her skin as she stares at him, like a bucket of ice sliding over her head - his wife, his _wife_ , the woman who had wrecked him on a daily basis and left him begging for more, his _dead_ wife.)

She curls her shoulders in, darts her eyes down to her desk. “Respectfully, you two can both go fuck yourselves,” she tells the notch in the wooden desk, the one Ben wore down with a pen or a knife or, god knows maybe it was his own hand - the anxious energy something she can understand better than why the hell she can’t stop thinking about Frank Castle and his strong jaw and his dead wife.

He snorts out something like a laugh, and despite her desire not to be caught in his gaze she can’t help the way her eyes dart up to catch the shape of his smile. 

It’s gone a moment later, and he returns to staring at the wall over her shoulder. 

“Listen, I got a lead upstate I gotta chase, and I don’t know how long I’m gone for, but I figured you’d wanna know he ain’t as done with you as you keep pretending you are with him.”  


“No offense, Frank, but your relationship advice is about as useful as your moral compass.”  


“Duly noted.”  


He stands, then, all bulk and intimidation, except to her it feels a bit more like a guard dog watching for cues from it’s master. It’s laughable that anyone could control him, but the thought remains.

“I’ll see you around, Page,” he says, and she tries not to read too much into the raspy quality to his voice when he says her name. “Stay away from that Roxxon shit until I get back, will you?”  


“Do you really believe I will?”  


He studies her for a long moment at the doorway. “Nah. Can’t blame a man for trying, though.”

\------

Life in the Kitchen never really settles, but Karen tries her best to let things return to normal. Normal as they can ever be, anyway.

So when she goes to slide her curtains closed one night and sees a dark shadow lingering on the fire escape in the building across from hers, she spends ten minutes cussing out the men in her life, opts to ignore it, and then spends an hour pacing a hole in her carpet before she checks her .380 and slides into the shadows of the alley. 

She expects to catch herself a Devil, and is all the more surprised by the lithe, petite body that hurtles off the fire escape and lands halfway across the alley heading toward the street.

“Hey!” Karen tries, and the woman half-turns.   


Karen vaguely recognizes her - thinks maybe she’d seen her in crime scene photographs, her face blurry in the background, or maybe -

“Damnit,” the woman mutters, most likely to herself, and Karen takes stock of her - the black leather everything, the stringy quality to her dark hair, the heavy pout of her lip and the camera tucked into her jacket.   


“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen responds, throwing up her hands, and the woman - Jessica Jones - gives her an amused head tilt.  


“I gotta go.”  


Karen huffs. “Like _hell_!”

She makes a move to follow her towards the street, but Jones takes off, a wobble to her steps, and by the time Karen makes it to the sidewalk Jones is gone.

\------

She barges into the office the next day, ready to give this PI a piece of her goddamn mind - the doorjamb looks like it’s been kicked off its hinges more than once, splintered wood all across the floor, and the desk directly opposite Karen is littered with half empty coffee cups and more empty handles of whiskey. 

Sitting at the desk is Jones, booted feet propped up, and she startles as though she’d been sleeping.

“What the fuck?” she says, and Karen crosses her arms.   


“I think, considering the circumstances, that’s my line.”  


“Listen, lady, I don’t know what the hell you want from me, but the office door was clearly closed and I’m really not in the mood to punch someone this early in the day.”  


“It’s two in the afternoon.”  


Jessica Jones leans up and snatches a bottle off the table behind her, unscrewing the cap and knocking back a few hearty gulps. “Not open for business, lady, so screw off until, like, at least seven thirty.”

“Who hired you to follow me?”  


“No one.”  


For someone who appeared to still be feeding a day-long bender, she sure was quick with the snappy repartee. 

“Oh, so you’re just skulking across the street from my apartment for _fun_ then? Great, I’ll know who to tell the cops about.”  


“I do not _skulk_ ,” she started, shooting Karen a glare through an oily curtain of hair. “And I said no one hired me. Didn’t say I was looking into you for myself.”  


“You definitely seem like the kind of woman who does personal favors at no charge.”  


“Look, take this shit up with him. I was just doing him a favor. Whatever weird couple shit you’ve got going on is so not my problem.”  


Karen clenches her hand into a fist. “How do you know Matt?”

Jones blinks. “What.”

It’s the first time Karen has seen her look anything but annoyed since she first saw her last night. It quickly morphs into amusement, and Karen is, for a moment, concerned that she’s revealed something she shouldn’t have. What if he’d gone to Jessica as the Devil? What if Jessica didn’t know? What if-

“Okay, look, I can see the wheels turning, so calm the fuck down. I have no idea who this ‘Matt’ is, but you should probably figure out your relationship problems on your own. Away from here. Castle asked me to keep an eye on you. Says your reckless. Don’t know when to keep your nose out of things. I’m familiar with that particular brand of woman, so I figured I’d do him a solid.”  


She takes a deep breath through her nose, holds it. Blows it out. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“He’s right, you know. About the reckless part. Do you know how many people are tailing you right now? It’s...it’s a lot. Way more than a girl like you can handle”  


“I can handle myself just fine, thank you,” she tells Jones, who eyes her consideringly.   


“Sure.”   


“Well, you can tell Frank to mind his own damn business.”   


“When he gets back I’ll be sure to tell him just how much I am never involving myself in his lovers spats ever again.”  


“We are _not_ together!”  


“Yeah, okay.” The way she rolls her shoulders back and grins at Karen makes Karen want to punch a hole through the wall. From the looks of this place, she wouldn’t be the first person to be unimpressed by Jessica Jones’ people skills. “You can go now.”

It takes Karen another minute before she can get herself under control enough to roll her tongue over her teeth and nod. 

She spins on her heel, ready to slam the door behind her just to make sure she gets the last word in, when Jessica’s voice stops her.

“Hey.”  


“ _What_.” Karen doesn’t bother to turn back around to look at her.   


“If you’re serious about this investigative journalism, danger-is-my-middle-name bullshit, I know a guy. Or, I know a guy who knows a guy. Could get you some actual self defense training.”  


Karen spins. “Do I look like I can afford that?”

Jessica considers her. “Look, even mad as hell you look like Bambi. I have a friend - lots of money, no where to put it. She’d like you. Give me a call tomorrow. If you’re interested.”

“Are you even sober enough to remember his conversation twenty four hours from now?”  


“Honey, I haven’t been sober in years. Memory hasn’t left me yet.”  


\------

A few days later Karen finds herself in yoga pants and a sports bra, standing in the middle of Trish Walker’s apartment, getting thrown across the room about once every thirty seconds. 

It’s exhilarating. Exactly none of this makes any sense, but every time the air leaves Karen’s lungs in a huff as her body hits the mat, she feels a bit stronger, a bit more fierce. 

Trish is grinning at her as her instructor reaches down to help Karen back up. 

Karen grins back.

\------

Hell’s Kitchen is a dangerous place for everyone, even before they start going after the criminal element. Karen has spent the last few years constantly on guard, but now her body feels ready for a fight, her muscles poised to take action. 

She hasn’t seen Frank in almost a month, so when she feels eyes on her, feels the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, her spine straightens, her gaze darts to the side mirror of the car she’s passing. There is, of course, no one there, but she keeps her eyes focused on the reflections in the windows she walks by, and eventually that rat bastard shows himself.

He seems especially annoyed when she ducks into the dark alleyway, his expression sour, and she fights back a grin, waiting, hoping he’s dumb enough to try to prove a point to her.

He is. 

He’s not expecting it, which is the only reason it works - his footsteps are nearly silent as he catches up to her, and his arm goes around her, yanking her back towards him - she uses the momentum of his movement, pressing herself backward and rolling, he tumbles right over her shoulder and lands with a surprised ‘oomph’ at her feet.

She sticks the heel of her pump to the pulse point of his neck as he glances up at her in wide-eyed surprise.

“Send someone to follow me around again and I swear to god, Frank, I’ll stab you myself.”  


He laughs.

It’s this deep, guttural laugh, his shoulders shaking, his lips curling, his gaze bright and wide as he lays there, and she wavers between wanting to savor the sound forever and wanting to reach into her bag for her taser. 

He lays there until his laughter dies down to an amused snort, his hand curling around her bare ankle, thumb grazing the delicate protruding bone, and Karen is momentarily breathless as the rough calluses catch on the fine hair she’s conveniently forgotten to shave for the last few days. 

“Where’d you learn that move, Xena?”  


His hand still wrapped around her ankle, his voice is soft an amused, and it’s hard to think about anything but the soft caress of his fingers on the top of her foot. 

“I told you I can take care of myself.”  


“I’m starting to believe you.”

She tells herself she’s imagining the way his eyes trail up her leg towards the hem of her skirt.

“Can I get up, or is this your thing now?”  


She moves her foot, and she definitely doesn’t imagine the way his fingers slide along her ankle as she does so. 

“I’d ask where the hell you’ve been, but Ellison’s already got me working the mysterious explosion at the warehouse in Philly the cartel used, so...”  


He leans up on his elbows, still watching her with a grin on his face. She’s never seen him smile so much. 

She tells herself she doesn’t really care all that much, but in the back of her mind she’s thinking up new ways to surprise him already.

“I mean this in the most complementary of ways, ma’am, but you’re fucking psychotic.”  


“I think it’s contagious,” she shoots back, and he huffs in amusement, taking the hand she holds out to pull himself back to his feet.  


She takes off, back toward the street, without another word, and he falls into step beside her. 

“Seriously, though, who taught you that?”  


“The tooth fairy.”  


He sneers back at her, and they fall into silence until they pass a coffee cart on the street. He orders one black for her, and pours half his own cup out to fill it with cream and sugar - not how he usually takes it, but she isn’t going to ask about his sudden sweet tooth. 

“You don’ have to walk me home.”  


“Clearly.”  


Their shoulders bump as he continues beside her. 

“I’m serious, Frank.”  


“Maybe I need you to watch my seven, Page, you ever think of that?”  


When their shoulders meet again it’s on purpose, but Frank is a wall of solid muscle and strength and he’s prepared for it this time. His free hand reaches out to steady her as she bounces, hand warm against her bare shoulder. 

“If you’re going to be a condescending asshole I’ll drop you again.”  


He grins around the lid of his coffee cup. “Like to see you try.”

It shouldn’t sound like an invitation, but then, Karen’s life is pretty fucked up these days.


End file.
